Julien
by pawriarty
Summary: Sherlock finds himself drugged. Moriarty wants a word or two.
1. You

Sherlock collapsed to his knees. The bitter cold of the concrete nipping at his palms in a bid to stay upright. His head lulled backwards, his eyelids growing heavier and heavier as each second flew past.

He crawled, wretched gasps escaping from his trembling lips as he persisted to keep control of his rebellious body."Deja vu?" A voice purred from his side. He jerked backwards, searching desperately for its source.

"I borrowed the drugs from a friend of mine," the voice continued with an unnerving calmness.

Sherlock's eyes grew wide before finally he couldn't battle his drooping eyelids any longer and his dazed gaze was gone.

He slipped back into consciousness, what he had already assumed had been, hours later.

"No wonder she uses them," the gentle tones started again. Sherlock's eyes flickered open, meeting with his captor, who paced back and forth. Distorted shapes of navy blue, black and white danced before him.

"Moriarty," he mustered a slur.

"Oh, you can speak!" The kidnapper exclaimed, halting abruptly to focus on the stirring detective.

"As I was saying before, It really is no wonder that she uses those drugs. I could have done _anything_ to you."Sherlock could sense a smile forming on Jim's lips as he spoke. Drowsiness still corrupted Sherlock's body, his limbs had grown into weights, a pounding pulsating within his head, so he decided against replying just yet.

"I _missed_ you." Jim didn't allow silence to settle.

He crouched before his prey. He extended a hand towards Sherlock, resting it gently on his cheek. Sherlock flinched at his touch, his head moved with a frigid jerk.

"Haven't you missed it Sherlock? All the fun we had," Jim feigned a frown as his hand fell to his side.

"You're supposed to be dead," Sherlock abandoned the quiet treatment.

"That's kind of hypocritical, don't you think?" Jim raised an eyebrow, disguising his delight that Sherlock had responded with a faked tone of disinterest.

"What do you want?" Sherlck swallowed.

**"You."**

* * *

_Well that was awfully short wasn't it? This little series of short 'chapters' or 'drabbles' or whatever is because i'm struggling from a case of writer's block and this is helping me to you know, write again. So, I apologize for the disappointment. It'd be lovely to hear your opinions though, 'cause then I'd know what to work on for future writings. _


	2. Missing Something?

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. He locked gazes with the man looming over him.

Jim chuckled at Sherlock's bemusement.

Sherlock scoffed.

Jim's expression fell dark. "I know that you're nothing but bored without me, Sherlock." He leaned in close, his breath tickling the detective's neck.

A crooked grin formed over the criminal's lips as he practically closed the gap between them. "You know it's true and it scares you."

"I didn't miss you," Sherlock mustered as he tore his eyes away from Jim's.

Jim's grin broadened, his hand slipped into his pocket and revealed a mobile phone. Slowly, he pressed at the keys.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. Who could he be calling? Jim's fingers lingered over the buttons as a faint sound of ringing emitted from the device.

"I know you didn't miss me _as much_."

Oh.

Sherlock swallowed hard again, barely managing to sustain his calm exterior. He knew exactly whose voice would pipe up from the phone in a few seconds.

"Hello?"

A swarm of butterflies had found there way into Sherlock's stomach. That voice. He had not heard it in years yet it was still immediately recognizable to him.

Jim breathed down the phone, the curve of his lips glinting a threat like the blade of a knife. "Hello, Doctor Watson. Missing something?"

Sherlock knew how John would react. He knew his eyes would have widened for a brief moment before quickly shrinking back to their ordinary size when he decided to growl a reply. He'd panic; then the anger would seep in.

"Moriarty."

Jim glanced at Sherlock. It was almost as if he could hear the malevolent drums returning to Sherlock's head.

"Oh, so you remember me!" Jim crowed. "You've lost something, or rather, someone, haven't you? Well, I think I've found him!"


	3. I'm Sorry

John shouldn't have believed that it was Jim Moriarty on the end of the phone. He was dead. He ran a quavering hand through his already dishevelled hair, the other curled tightly around his mobile.

"You're supposed to be dead," he managed, his tone irregular.

"Oh, please don't be boring, Doctor. I've already been through this multiple times with multiple individuals."

John exhaled a deep breath, his fingers falling from the entanglement of hair to pinch the bridge of his nose. That voice; so familiar with it's menacing confidence that conflicted with the gentle Irish twang.

It knotted his stomach.

"As I was saying," the voice over the phone continued its drawl, "You lost something. Something… important. Precious?"

"I haven't lost anything."

Sherlock could hear John's apprehensive words. Jim had him on speaker phone, the corners of his lips twitching at the replies as he cradled the phone in his open palm. John was striving to sound strong but the despair clinging to his words reigned dominant.

The consulting criminal's gaze settled on Sherlock's hunched figure, his restrained smile finally breaking through. He extended his arm towards the detective. The light emitting from the screen illuminated Sherlock's features as the device was held below his chin."Come on, say hello," Jim encouraged, his hand swaying slightly before him.

John was intrigued, he had to admit. But close beside that curiosity was fear. A swarm of anxiety burrowing deep in his stomach. He was on the phone to the most dangerous man in London, who was supposed to be rotting in the ground. A dead man who seemed to be excited. Excited that he was talking to the doctor.

Jim rolled his eyes at Sherlock with a disappointed groan.

"Come on, open up that luscious mouth of yours," he teased, persistent that the dazed man speak.

Sherlock's mouth fell open the closed again. This only further irritated the man crouched aside him.

"I'll make you talk," he threatened, his free hand raising to hover over Sherlock's throat.

Sherlock swallowed as he glanced down at the hands poised towards his neck, then he mustered a simple mumble.

"I'm sorry."


End file.
